it’s done we can go on a nice long walk to the river.’
Tom saw a way to imprison her in talk for the next half-hour. ‘Let’s do it.’
She used cardboard plates at her flat, and squashed them in the bin afterwards, but was happy to say yes. They put their hands up, like children at school, she thought, then went into the house, applauded by the others.
‘Do you know how to get there?’ The thatched cottages and front gardens were so neat she imagined people trying for the best kept village of the year. Even the gravestones looked polished and scoured, surrounding the stark grey church whose sinister tower must be visible for miles.
‘We turn left along here.’ He put a hand on her naked elbow, as if she needed guiding. The others would be left behind, and she liked being near him, though neither could think of much to say after their chatter at the sink. Skylarks and swifts played Battle of Britain in the blue, and the heat wafted an odour of tall wheat from either side of the track.
‘I’ve done this walk quite a few times.’ She wondered who with as they turned down a lane of birch trees, treading over hardrimmed tractor ruts. ‘There’s a keeper’s cottage at the end, then nothing between there and the river.’
Except a band of dark wood. The way opened onto sloping fields of yellow rape, which also patched the rising land across the valley. They stood a moment to enjoy the view. ‘I hear Elgar’s music when I get to this spot,’ he said.
Poppies were worried by wasps of gold and black, and a small aeroplane lazied up from the coast. ‘I see what you mean.’
He put an arm around her. ‘The “Introduction and Allegro”, what else?’ – and kissed her, a slow easing of the tongue into her mouth. Her body burned with the heat of the day, and there was sweat on her upper lip. The kiss was brief, could have lasted longer it was so delicious. She held his hand as they walked, breath quickened and not altogether from exertion. A rabbit zig-zagged out of their way. ‘I know a short cut through the wood.’
Thistles and stubble slowed them down, then she detoured trying to avoid tall nettles, but they brushed her thin overalls and the vague tingle of stings came through, increasing her desire for him. ‘Won’t we be seen from the keeper’s cottage?’
He waited for her to catch up. ‘I expect he’s too busy with Lady C. – if you see what I mean.’
They clambered over a ruinous stile, Tom scuffing a chocolatelooking stag beetle from a beam before handing her across. Unnecessary, but it was fun to let him think he could help. The way down levelled under foliage of clustering elms, brambles and small bushes almost covering the track. He stopped at a clearing.
Collared doves warbled, flapping at the disturbance. There was nothing to be said, hadn’t been since eyeing each other across the table, her hands as forward as his as she drew him down, seeing his glazed eyes and still lips, and sweat on him also. An aroma of damp undergrowth played around the cool wood as she undid the straps of her overalls, and pulled at the buttons of her shirt. The crack of a twig sounded from some animal, or a disturbed branch, and she hoped there’d be no unseen audience.
She had never made love in a wood, while he obviously had, and she wondered at the unfamiliar air so cool to her nakedness. When he took off his shirt and trousers she could hardly bear to wait. The heat went back into her, and they seemed a thousand miles from the nearest human. He knew what he was doing, in ways she hadn’t thought of before, but passion took care of them in any case.
Unexpectedly discovered love put them into a state of indolent stupefaction. She hoped there would be no wet patch on her overalls for the others to notice when they got to the river. His instinct was good, for he passed her a newly ironed handkerchief from his back pocket. ‘Use this.’
‘You came prepared.’
‘Be unforgivable if I didn’t.’ He never felt better than after a good long fuck, and hoped she did too, complimenting himself that it hadn’t been for want of plying the old skill if she didn’t. ‘The idea of sadness after sex must have been a liberal middle-class invention, like socialism or anti-smoking, or not eating meat. Anything to stop people enjoying life.’ Gratified at her laughter, he lit a cigarette. ‘This is the first weekend I’ve had off in months. I get up at six, and am never in bed before midnight.’
‘It certainly keeps you fit,’ she said languidly.
He flicked his ash towards a butterfly. ‘I spend an hour at the gym every day. Otherwise, I’d seize up.’
‘You certainly didn’t get anywhere near it then.’ She wanted to sleep in a big white bed with him, but stood to smooth the aches in her hips.
He straightened his collar. ‘We’d better go, I suppose, or they’ll wonder where we’ve got to.’
He wasn’t there when she next went to Charlotte’s, and she had almost grovelled to get invited. She had to push aside foul Norman Bakewell, who ragged her all through a lunch that would only have been good if you were peasant-hungry. He taunted her at Tom’s absence, as if his wormy novelist’s mind guessed every detail of their encounter.
Walking towards the wood made the distance seem twice as long. She was depressed and chilled in the damp glade, rain trickling from the foliage. The half-hour with Tom had been so perfect, she might have known it was too good to recall. Her mac was like wet muslin on getting back to the house. Luckily, Norman Bakewell was asleep in the lounge, though sending up vinous fumes and the stink of foul cigars.
Home dead beat from work, she picked up the phone to hear Tom’s unmistakably nasal tone. ‘It’s been a long time, far too long, but can I come and see you?’
A month had gone by, and while knowing his number she had waited rather than do him the honour. The stab of wishing they had never met came now and again, but their idyllic summer’s day would return in smell and touch, visual detail flooding in so that the innermost part of her belly yearned.
‘When?’ she asked.
‘Now.’
He came out of the lift wearing Reeboks, jeans, and a Gap shirt. A copy of The Big Issue showed from one pocket of his blue cashmere overcoat, and a bottle of White Horse stuck its neck out of the other.
‘I’m serious.’ He sat by her on the couch, a drink cupped in his free hand. ‘I can’t ever forget you. I love you, and want to see you all I can. The trouble is, I’ve been rushing here there and everywhere these last weeks, and couldn’t find a minute to get in touch.’
She was glad, having been too often on the point of ringing him. ‘Is your wife away tonight?’
‘Nothing like that. I’m working late. I always am.’
She sipped whisky and Evian, and fought away laughter at noting that Evian backwards spelled ‘naive’. She felt mischievous. ‘Does she have a lover?’
‘She could, for all I know.’
‘Would you mind?’
He laughed. ‘I’d kill him, maybe.’
‘Suppose he played
